Echoes of Timbre
by TheBladedancer
Summary: When chaos erupts during one field show, it's up to the section leaders to hold the band together. Also can be called: Where's Waldo and the Band Stereotypes?
1. Prelude to Disaster

My Fellow Harpsichord-playing Penguins:  
  
This story is just a short thingy about a football game. It's mostly the section leaders...well, the section leaders and their lives, and some extremely accurate band-cliches.  
  
How this story was created: You see, I can tell you from personal experiences that every single instrument player has a personality that directly goes to their section. It's obvious. For example, I've been playing flute for nearly eight years. We are extremely "spazzy" to the highest degree (me a bit more than most). Clarinets tend to be a bit more of the catty side. Drummers...well, you all know about the drummers.  
  
To capture that effect, I hid out in the bushes for about a week, studying the voice patterns and habits of each individual band member. As the end of my findings, I wrote this story which appears here on fanfiction.net.  
  
This is a short story just about one football game. I was sitting at the computer one afternoon and thought I might write something about music. The day or so before I finally noticed the Marching Band section on this site. So, here is my little story. I hope you enjoy it!  
  
~Aithne (TheBladedancer) 


	2. Game Time

Chapter I - Game Time  
  
"Game time, my friends!" the section leader of the woodwinds cried out, raising her hands above her head in ecstasy. The thunder above her crackled, sensing her dark delight in her spoken words. Game time was upon them.  
  
For a full moment, she stood there, her feet planted on the metal stands, her hands high above her. Her head was thrust upward so that she looked up to the heavens. Heat lightning gently glowed the sky far into the distance.  
  
The flute players all sat on the edge of the seat, looking up at her in amazement. What power the section leaders had! Their eyes were wide in wonder as the seconds ticked by.  
  
The section leader didn't even see the tuba player plow into her side, nearly knocking her off her perch on the bench.  
  
"Sorry, Lu," the tuba player said with an innocent shrug, his shoulders bumping into the tuba. He flashed her as grin as Lu's scowl only grew.  
  
"Aw, Lu," one of the flute players caroled. "We all thought you were talking to God or something."  
  
Lu looked at the girl, a freshman she thought. Or maybe a sophomore. Who cares? she thought, grinning evilly in her mind. Only an underclassman.  
  
"I was," Lu told her, brushing back her auburn hair. She gave a shrug as if the act were nothing out of the norm. A boy coming up the stands snorted playfully at comment, and Lu turned.  
  
The snare drum harness was draped comfortably down his front, but the snare drum was under one arm, held in place easily. He winked at her and Lu grinned broadly.  
  
"Hi ho, Mark," she told him as he walked by. A few of the flutes hooted in breathless sighs until Mark turned to them-his blonde hair draping over his brilliant green eyes. They instantly stopped moving, their breath caught in their lungs.  
  
"Yes, my pretties," Lu called to them sweetly, "gawk at the hot drummer." She turned a fake glare on Mark. "If I find out that you are winking at them...."  
  
Mark dipped into an awkward bow, hindered by the drum. "I won't," he promised, heading to his section in the stands.  
  
"Lu, do all of the section leaders get it on together, or is it just you and Mark?" one of the clarinets sniped, annoyed by the spectacle of the two.  
  
Lu shrugged again. "Just me and Mark usually," she replied, keeping her humor within. The thunder crackled again, and Lu grinned. It was almost game time.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Katie stood on the pavement, tapping her toe heatedly on the ground. She looked up at the open window of the band room. "Paul, it's not like we have time. Mr. Genvei wanted us in the stands five minutes ago. It's my solo tonight for the National Anthem, and if we are late for it...."  
  
Katie didn't finish the sentence. She was section leader of the brass. That alone should put the fear of God into the sophomore trumpet player, Paul. But he had just moved to the school, and only had joined band the week before. What could he know of a trumpet section leader's furious wrath?  
  
This was his first football game, and Katie had been instructed to bring him to the stands as soon as he had gotten his trumpet from the music hall. How was she supposed to know that this was the night that Paul would forget where he last placed his mouthpiece?  
  
Just my luck, she grumbled in her mind. It figures that he would be forgetful on her watch.  
  
Katie tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear, feeling the gold hoops that hung from her earlobe. She wanted this game ended quickly; Katie had a date...again.  
  
"Damn!" she heard Paul snort. Katie looked at him as he emerged from the building. Katie looked at him skeptically.  
  
"Stop whining," she ordered him unsympathetically. "We are late." She glared at him pointedly.  
  
Paul didn't argue as Katie led him to the stands in a brisk stride. But his silence with her didn't stop him from turning to a few of his sophomore friends on the way, stopping for a few tidbits of conversation.  
  
When Katie noticed, she turned on her heel, her trumpet loose in her hand. With her other, she grabbed Paul by the collar, yanking him away from the girl he had been talking to. Katie had just grabbed him when the first roll of the National Anthem began, ringing loud and clear across the field.  
  
Katie said nothing, but turned angrily to Paul.  
  
New trumpets, she fumed silently, walking closer to the glorious sound of the Hamil High School marching band, Paul helpless in her tow. 


	3. Drumstick Hurricane

Chapter Two – Drumstick Hurricane

Mr. Genvei looked proudly at his band, marveling in their size and sound. The trumpets blasted away his ears, causing the flute players to wince as the song continued. The drummers rocked back in forth in their dance, and the trombones' slides slid up and down in perfection.

"It's the final countdown!" he heard someone in the stands singing as the trumpets began to scream the melody of the song. He smiled to himself, bringing up a hand to his mouth to smother the action.

They were _his_ band. His one pride. Genvei almost felt a twinge of remorse as he remembered that this was his last year teaching music—he was retiring after this one last year—and this, this one game, was his last football game.

Almost worthy of sentiment, he thought as the drums ended the song like a roll of thunder.

Genvei raised his hands to get his attention. He saw Lu hold her piccolo comfortably in her hand, waiting for his next instructions. Katie was similar, her trumpet easily resting in her right hand.

"Start up a cadence," he announced to the drummers. Mark, his ears perked up as he strained to hear the director over the din of cheers, nodded eagerly, a broad grin appearing on his face.

The snares began a roll, the quints suddenly pelting out a fast-paced solo. Lu turned and saw Mark, his hands moving too quickly to follow. He had traded with another drummer to play the solo and now everyone was breathless. He had _talent_. 

Noticing that Mark was hardly concerned with the solo and that he was actually looking at her, Lu smiled at the drummer, watching his hands roll over the quints, the sticks moving with the speed of lightning. The drummer returned it tenfold, his solo ending and the cheers of his fellow band members erupting madly.

*** *** ***

Kenny's fingers slammed against the keys of his tuba in an impatient tapping. He was no section leader, no senior or upperclassman. He was simply Kenny, the tuba player.

The same shy Kenny who had a solo in the song for the field show.

Who did Genvei think he was, giving him a solo? He _never_ should be given solos! His stomach twisted and squirmed uneasily as he sat in the stands. He was nervous and his hand shook as his fingers came to rest on the keys of his trusted tuba.

You will do fine, or so his mother and father told him. He turned his head, catching sight of him in the stands above him. Hundreds of people were in the stands, their eyes on the field—where he would stand.

Kenny sighed. He was going to mess up! In front of everyone!

A lump of nervousness formed in Kenny's throat. His foot began tapping on the metal of the stands in some vain attempt to rid himself of the overpowering fright. It didn't help.

And Kenny was helpless to that fear, and so he sat there in the stands, the drumsticks dancing in the distance.

*** *** ***

Mark set down the quints, his hands twitching in the aftermath of his excitement. A drummer clapped him on the back, praise for his solo.

"Yeah, thanks," Mark told him, giving a grin. He glanced at Genvei who was talking with a few of the saxophones lower in the stands.

Mark looked back to his drummers with a dangerous, devilish smile. His drumsticks under his arm, he beckoned them closer. The drummers eagerly leaned forward, waiting for Mark's new plan.

The drummer was always thinking of something new, like putting the small French horn player into the largest bass drum. Or, like during band camp, playing fetch with the drumsticks.

At all of those times, Mark had worn the same, dare-deviling, gravity-defying grin, the twinkle always in his eyes. The rest of the drummers hung on his every word.

"Genvei wants us to play the Monkey Dance cadence out on the field," Mark told them. They shrugged, already knowing that. The Monkey Dance was one of the easiest cadences; all of the drummers could play it in their sleep. Still, Genvei had wanted to take no chances on this last game—he wanted it to be perfect.

"So what're you planning, Marco?" a bass drummer asked, his Spanish accent thick. Black hair fell in front of his face as he spoke, but Mark didn't seem to notice.

Mark paused, letting the suspense grow. "I want us to try out the Hurricane."

Mouths literally dropped. The Hurricane? Not a chance, they all thought immediately. Mark might be able to do it, sure, but not everyone.

"We'd look like crap," a snare griped. "We haven't practiced—"

"Yes we have," Mark interrupted in a sudden flash of anger. "Quit complaining, Taylor." The snare drummer closed his mouth obediently.

Mark looked at his drummers carefully. "Are you all in?" He glanced at the scoreboard, catching sight of the ticking clock. "We've got five minutes before we head down to the sidelines. Hurricane or no?"

The drummers as a collective turned to look at each other, weighing their chances.

"What the hell," one said with a weak smile. "I'm in."

Mark grinned. He knew that when one drummer says yes, the others are not usually eager to disagree.


End file.
